


You Can't Hide

by TheGlassHeart



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Broken Bones, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Torture, Unhappy Ending, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlassHeart/pseuds/TheGlassHeart
Summary: Jack thought he'd escaped





	You Can't Hide

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark, and it's a one-shot; don't like, don't read. Cheers :) (Though, if there are any tags I missed off, please lmk in the comments so I can add them)

Black leather bites into his neck. He writhes on the metal slab, cold against his naked body. Wrists, ankles; both shackled down in the same loops of material.

“ _Jack_.”

The voice is a croon.

Darkness washes through the room, extinguishing the sputtering wall candle. It’s absolute. He tries to turn his head, but there is nothing to see amongst the pressing void. His breathing hitches. Cold fingers are touching the sole of his foot.

“You thought you could run from me?”

God, that voice. The one that haunts the back of his mind, equal parts chilling and seductive, laced with cruel amusement. He tries to respond, but even as his lips part, there are hands slipping a scarf into his mouth, tying it around his head. Blood roars in his head as he tries to recall when the hand disappeared from his foot. The fingers are resting on his collarbone now, not that he can see them.

“You know, Jack,” The voice pauses, contemplative, “I thought you were the one. You never talked back. You never rebelled. I liked that about you.” The fingers trail across his body to rest at the base of his throat. “Of course, sometimes a bit of speech is desirable. It makes things more…interesting.” The tiniest bit of pressure. “I thought we’d get there eventually, darling. Everyone is shy at first. After the first few meetings, you really did start to change. You seemed to enjoy it.”

Jack flinches.

The fingers press for a brief second more before they vanish. _No_. The gag won’t let the word form.

“But you left.” A sigh. “Do you know what it’s like, Jack? To wake up and realise that the one you trusted is gone?” The fingers tap his ankle, just above the strap. “No, I don’t think that you do. It hurts, my darling.” Cold, they are so cold as they trail up his calf. “I was ruined. My heart belongs to you, just as much as you belong to me.”

 _You belong to me_.

The words echo.

A trail of terror winds up Jack’s legs with the fingers; they dance over his knee, ghost up his inner thigh. The palm is placed flat on his stomach. For a few seconds, the deafening silence takes over and everything is still.

Then the hand pushes downwards with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

“ _Everything_ , Jack. You – took – everything.” Each word is punctuated by another compression. He tries to suck air in through the scarf, chokes, panics before he remembers to breathe through his nose. Neck rubbed raw from the leather, he chokes out a cry.

“Are you crying?”

Quietly monstrous, the voice accompanies the hand until it cups his cheek. Something flickers across his cheek. A tongue, catching his tears.

“Don’t worry, Jack.” The voice is next to his ear; the breath tickles his neck. “You can cry all you like here. Like I said: you belong to me.”

Pain.

Blinding pain, accompanied by a heart-rending crack, as something slams into his elbow, shattering it. Agony shoots up and down his arm like lava. Even the gag can’t quite muffle his scream. Butterfly kisses dance along his neck.

“I’m sorry to hurt you, darling. But this is the only way I can be sure.” Those freezing, soulless hands hold his arm in place as he thrashes. How many minutes pass before he exhausts himself, he doesn’t know. A fingertip creeps up to peel his eye open, not that he can see anything. “You’re doing so well, Jack. You’re not even in shock.”

Even with the pain from the first arm, he’s unprepared for the splintering strike dealt to the other. His body starts shaking, even as the hands brace against his shoulders. The bones, God, the bones are rubbing against one another. His fingers won’t obey him, his arms won’t move. Tears of pain roll down his face, only to be eagerly lapped up by the figure now straddling him. The gritted material is like sandpaper against his skin.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Perhaps an hour passes before it is deemed that he hasn’t gone into shock. Constant kisses are peppered across his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. Those hands brush hair from his forehead, as cold sweat breaks out with every roll of nausea from the screaming pain.

“I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

Hours later, Jack bolts to consciousness and screams. Gag still firmly in place, it comes out as little more than a whimper.

“You’re awake. Excellent.”

Swiftly, his right knee is broken.

This time, the pain is too much and he sinks back into the darkness gladly.

* * *

 

“You must stay awake this time, Jack.”

Shards of bone groan against each other as a hand braces itself against his hip. The left knee is devastated from yesterday’s treatment, after which he passed out again. It’s difficult to tell how much time has passed, given the constant darkness that his eyes just won’t adjust to, but at least the gag is gone to prevent him choking on vomit. Having his hip dislocated sends sparks darting up to his brain; his eyes roll, but a sharp slap prevents the welcome darkness from claiming him. The leather around his neck is leaving welts, raw and angry.

Then there are the kisses. This time they’re across his cheeks.

“Only three more major breakages. The fingers won’t hurt so much, my darling.”

* * *

 

By the time they reach his right shoulder, he’s more than used to the routine of being fed just enough watered down nutrients to live. He’s used to vomiting them back up from the pain too. A damp cloth is dabbed at his cheeks. Leather straps are pulled taut across his chest and navel. The table is rotated bolt upright, with hands steadying him so that he can relieve himself into what he assumes is a pot on the floor.

“You’re so nearly there, my darling. Keep going.”

* * *

 

He can’t feel his fingers and wrists being broken. Nor can he feel his ankles and toes, though the voice takes care to ensure that he isn’t in shock between the breakages.

Surely death would be preferable to this, he thinks as a leather brace is strapped around his torso and slipped between his legs. Death would be a blessing compared to the chains clipped to the leather straps on his wrists and ankles. Compared to the pain when he is hoisted off the table to hang, limp, in mid-air like a puppet on strings.

Screeching metal on stone tells him that the table is sinking into the floor. The darkness makes it impossible to tell whether he’s being lifted or dropped, until pain registers in his splintered ankles.

“You look beautiful.”

There are hands on his waist; he sways forward, unable to stop the momentum of the puppet strings. A mouth captures his, even as the chains lift his legs up to wrap around the waist of the man in front of him.

The man that smiles into his mouth.

The man that slips his hands from the waist to underneath his thighs.

The man that unhooks the chains from the leather and carries his unprotesting figure to the next room.


End file.
